


Behind Black Eyes

by yopumpkinhead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yopumpkinhead/pseuds/yopumpkinhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Brady was possessed by a demon, he was someone Sam considered a friend - and possibly more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freshman

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sam Winchester Big/Mini Bang. Beta'd by the awesome [Fic_me_senseless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fic_me_senseless/pseuds/Fic_me_senseless) \- any remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> The lovely [emmatheslayer](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/) did the art for this fic! 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Her art masterpost is here.](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/331926.html)

College, Dean always said, was just for picking up girls. Dean had never had a problem with _that_ , so why bother going? But Sam wasn’t going to think about Dean, not now. Not on the first day of his first semester at Stanford, when all that mattered was making sure enough of his scholarships had gone through that he could pay for the classes he’d chosen, and looking normal enough not to scare everyone during orientation.

That part was important, the looking normal. Dad had moved them around so many times in the last few years that Sam had learned, very quickly, that if you didn’t fit in right away at a new school, you’d never fit in at all. So even though he hadn’t planned to be in Palo Alto three weeks before orientation, he’d been glad ( _no, really, he’d been_ glad _, it had all worked out and it was going to be okay_ ) that he’d gotten there so early. He’d had time to work every odd job he could get his hands on, and it didn’t matter that he’d mostly slept in youth shelters that were little more than cattle pens, because when the time came to move into his dorm room he had enough cash to afford more than one change of clothes and even a few notepads and pens. On the posh campus of Stanford in the even more posh world of Silicon Valley, it was still painfully obvious that those clothes came from Goodwill, but at least he didn’t look like a freak.

Sam wore the nicest outfit he had to orientation, because first impressions were important, but that amounted to a pair of jeans that both covered his ankles and didn’t have holes, and a hoodie that wasn’t stained with old blood. He’d forgotten to get a haircut, and his hair fell shaggy into his eyes. He still felt poor and grubby next to all the other kids in their neat polos and ironed slacks and fifty-dollar haircuts, but he thought - he hoped - that they’d mistake his look for an attempt at rebellious grunge rather than the only things he could afford.

He wound up sandwiched in a too-short auditorium seat ( _he was really beginning to regret all the times he’d wished he would grow taller than Dean; being six-two was not as cool as he’d hoped_ ) between a nervous-looking boy who already had a CEO’s jaw, and a fat guy deep in conversation with the guy on _his_ other side about whether Debian or BSD was superior ( _and what the hell were those even, from the context Sam thought maybe computer operating systems but it wasn’t like they taught you this stuff in public high schools, not when you were only there for a few months at a time_ ). The nervous-looking boy flashed Sam a shy smile but didn’t otherwise speak, and Sam, too nervous ( _sick to his stomach, was this the right thing to do, this was everything he’d ever wanted but all he could feel was a stark cold terror that he’d fucked up_ ) to speak himself, just nodded in return.

Near the end of orientation, the chipper woman leading the presentation announced that they were going to do a “making new friends” exercise, and instructed everyone in the auditorium to introduce themselves to the people sitting next to them. The computer geek didn’t even turn to Sam, focused as he was on resuming his discussion of operating systems with his seatmate, so Sam looked at the nervous boy.

“Sam Winchester,” he said, and smiled, trying to pretend this wasn’t any different than any other first day of school, than any other time he’d met new people, that his stomach wasn’t churning in anticipation of being rejected by the other new students ( _the ones who belonged here, in this elegant world of research and education, unlike Sam who’d never been good for anything, who’d been kicked out by his own father for— and no, he wasn’t going to think about Dad right now, either_ ).

The boy smiled back, still shy, but his blue eyes were warm. “Call me Brady,” he said.

*             *             *

“You know,” Sam said, “it’s been two months and I still don’t know your last name.”

He and Brady were strolling across one of Stanford’s many gorgeous lawns, dawdling to kill time before their next class started. They’d ended up in a lot of the same freshman classes; apparently Brady was as determined as Sam to make the most of his college time. They’d become friends almost by accident as they walked from class to class together, traded notes, and compared homework. Despite his height - he was as tall as Sam - and athletic build, Brady was quiet and studious. Sam felt much more comfortable around him than many of the other freshmen, who were reveling in their newfound freedom from parental oversight.

Over the last two months, he’d figured out that Brady was from an upper-class, very Catholic home. Brady’s parents had planned for him to attend Stanford and become a doctor since he was in diapers, and had arranged his entire life so that he would succeed once he got here. Sam thought Brady resented it, at least a little, but just like Sam hadn’t been able to break free of Dad’s plan for him until he’d literally run away to go to college, Brady had never managed to convince his parents that maybe medical school wasn’t for him.

Brady glanced up at him, mouth curling in a mischievous little smirk. “You do, actually,” he said.

Sam blinked, trying for a minute to think of anyplace he could possibly have heard Brady’s last name. All throughout middle and high school, he’d relied on teachers’ daily roll call to learn his classmates’ names, but in college none of the teachers cared whether or not you turned up to class on any given day. And Brady only ever introduced himself with one name when asked.

Then Sam got it. “ _Brady’s_ your last name,” he said, and Brady grinned. “So what’s your first name?”

Brady looked away and scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly and obviously embarrassed. Sam watched with amusement as his cheeks flushed, but didn’t say anything, just waiting. Finally Brady heaved an exaggerated sigh and looked up at Sam. “It’s stupid. Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“How stupid are we talking?” Sam asked. “Like, ‘Barnaby’ stupid, or ‘Moon Unit’ stupid? Because if your parents named you Moon Unit, I don’t think I could keep that a secret.”

Brady stared at him in horror. Sam grinned - Brady was an only child, and didn’t always realize right away when Sam was just teasing - and after a second or two Brady relaxed and punched Sam in the arm. “Asshole.” He sighed. “It’s Tyson. There’s some priest or something my parents were big fans of when my mom was pregnant with me, and they decided it would be a _fantastic_ idea to name me after him.”

“Tyson’s not stupid,” Sam said.

“Yes it is,” Brady said. “You’re lucky, you have a normal name.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Right. _Sam_. How exciting. Whoop-de-doo.”

“Shut up.” Brady thumped him again.

“What about Ty?” Sam asked.

“No!” Brady made a gagging noise. “My great-aunts call me ‘dear little Ty’. Makes me want to puke every time.”

A flash of sudden fierce jealousy left Sam unable to speak for a second. He’d never had a great-aunt to call him stupid childish names. Brady, thankfully, didn’t notice. He said, “I mean it, Sam. You ever call me Tyson - or Ty - I swear I’ll punch your nose in.”

Sam laughed, the jealousy fading. “I’d like to see you try.”

*             *             *

The thing about schoolyard bullying, Sam thought irritably, was that it was supposed to get left behind in the schoolyard. But apparently, even the hallowed halls of a research university as prestigious as Stanford couldn’t completely shut out the idiots who thought picking on other people was a good use of their time.

Brady had arrived for class that morning pursued by a group of guys wearing varsity jackets and fraternity rings, who talked loudly and pointedly about the “faggot” who “probably got in on a _performance_ scholarship ifyaknowhatimean”. Brady’s ears burned bright red and he kept his head down as he ducked past Sam into the classroom.

Sam followed him, putting himself between Brady and the frat boys, and asked Brady in a low voice, “What’s with those guys?”

Brady sighed, dropping his backpack on a desk and slumping into the seat. “They—I, uh. I don’t know.” He couldn’t have been any more obvious about lying if he’d tried. His jaw worked and he closed his eyes tiredly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Sam protested. “Brady, those guys are assholes, don’t—”

“Don’t listen to them,” Brady said, the corner of his mouth quirking in something that had nothing to do with a smile. “I know.”

Sam gritted his teeth, but before he could say anything else the teacher arrived, and he had to scramble to get a seat before the lecture started. After class, though, he stayed close to Brady on the way out. Brady was still hunched and miserable-looking, and when he saw the frat boys still standing outside the classroom, he flinched.

It was the wrong thing to do. They took notice of him as clearly and hungrily as a pack of wolves spotting an injured fawn, and moved to follow him. Brady picked up his pace and Sam shifted to try to block Brady from their view, but it didn’t help. The frat boys followed them to their next class, calling slurs and insults the whole way, and by the time Sam and Brady managed to secure the relative safety of the classroom almost half an hour before class started, Brady looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

The frats weren’t there when they left the second class, and Sam thought - hoped - maybe that would be the end of it. But they turned up again the next morning, following Brady to his first class of the day and then to his second before disappearing, and again the morning after, and on the fourth morning Sam had had enough.

They were halfway between their first and second classes, walking through a shaded copse of redwoods, when one of the frats said something that made Brady flinch hard enough that he almost tripped. Sam had been tuning them out - he didn’t see the point in giving them the satisfaction of listening - but whatever it was had clearly struck a nerve, and Brady _should not have to go through this, dammit._

Sam stopped walking and turned, planting himself firmly between Brady and the frats. He had dealt with more than his fair share of bullies over the years - as the perpetual new kid, small and skinny with nothing but hand-me-downs to his name, he’d been a prime target - and he could practically see the frat boys realize what he was doing and shift tactics. Without breaking pace, they spread out to surround him; Sam stepped forward to meet them and, not incidentally, keep Brady from getting trapped in their circle.

“What’s wrong?” one of the frats asked. He was the obvious ringleader of the five, a tall-dark-and-handsome type with neat dark hair, killer cheekbones, and a quarterback’s sleek muscle. “We’re just having a little fun.”

“Back off,” Sam said flatly.

“Oh, c’mon,” a second guy said. He had a WASP’s blue eyes and strong jaw, and a weightlifter’s build. “It’s fun! Whatsamatter, can’t you take a joke?”

Sam glared. “You’ve got a fucked-up idea of a joke.”

He could feel the shift in the air as they closed in around him, the guys behind him moving closer, crowding him. He let them do it, dropping his bag on the ground and taking another step closer to the ringleader and the weightlifter. Behind him, he heard Brady say in a wavering voice, “Leave him alone!”

The ringleader glanced past Sam at Brady, a good ol’ boy smile on his face. “We’re just talking,” he said. “But hey, if you really want to save your boyfriend here, I can think of something you can do for—”

Sam was moving almost before he realized it, not thinking, not even sure what he planned to do once he was in the ringleader’s face. But the guy hadn’t got to be a quarterback by having slow reflexes, and he swung up an arm.

It was possible he was just planning to shove Sam back, but Sam had been trained by John Winchester and half a lifetime of fighting things with superhuman speed and strength. Reflex took over and a second later the ringleader was flat on his face in the dirt.

Someone shouted in surprise but one of the other frats was already moving for Sam, fist drawing back, and Sam had always thought the “everything slowed down” line was a cliché from bad action novels but now he knew what it meant. He had plenty of time to grab the guy’s wrist, twist his hips, and flip him head over heels to slam to the ground. Then it was a sidestep, another grab and twist and fling for number three, duck and throw a couple of gut punches into number four while he was already low, and finish by putting his entire body into an uppercut on number five.

The whole thing took maybe eight seconds, and when it was over, all five frat boys lay sprawled on the grass in shock. Sam stood over them, chest heaving with exertion and fury, and for a second he wished he had Dad’s rock-salt shotgun just so he could fire it into the ground near them for emphasis. He met the ringleader’s eyes. “Come near either of us again and you won’t be able to walk away after,” he said, his voice a low angry growl more like Dad’s than his own.

The guy licked his lips and sneered. “Why would we want to go anywhere near a freak and his freak boyfriend?”

Sam didn’t say anything, though he was pretty sure the grinding of his teeth was audible. The ringleader shoved to his feet and shook his jacket back into place while his companions pulled themselves together. Sam hadn’t done any serious damage to them - the guy who’d taken the gut punches and the one who’d taken the uppercut would be hurt the worst, but it would be little more than bad bruises and strained muscles. It was something else Dad had taught him, when he’d realized Sam was picking fights way back in ninth grade.

Only when the frats had disappeared up the path did Sam let out his breath. Grass rustled behind him as Brady shifted, and a sudden pang of fear hit him in the gut. Brady had seen the whole thing - what if he thought the ringleader was right? What if he thought that Sam was a freak, a dangerous creep? Sam swallowed hard and made himself turn around.

Brady was staring at him, his blue eyes huge. “Sam…” he said. “Holy crap.”

“Sorry,” Sam said. His hands had clenched into nervous fists at his sides; he forced them to relax.

“What the heck are you apologizing for?” Brady demanded, and grinned. “That was _awesome!_ ” But a moment later the grin faded and he bit his lip. “But… you’re going to get in trouble. Crap, Sam, what if they suspend you or something? What if those guys file assault charges—”

Sam held up both hands. “They won’t. Don’t worry.”

Brady shook his head. “You don’t know that!”

“You saw them,” Sam said, then gestured at himself. There was a mirror in his dorm room; he knew exactly how gangly and thin he looked. “You really think those guys are going to admit to anyone that _I_ beat them up?”

“I don’t know,” Brady said. “You, uh… you didn’t see yourself, Sam. You were… you were pretty scary, man.”

Sam winced. “Oh. Um. Sorry.”

“No!” Brady said, and grabbed Sam’s wrist, tugging until Sam looked up at him. “Scary is good. I mean, I’m glad you were scary. Uh.” He blew out his breath in a little laugh and shook his head. “I mean, I’m trying to say thanks.”

Sam felt his cheeks heat up, and ducked his head to try to hide the blush. From Brady’s little smile, he hadn’t succeeded - but somehow, he didn’t mind. “You’re welcome.”

*             *             *

After that, they didn’t see the frat boys again, and it wasn’t long before worry about getting in trouble for fighting was supplanted by worry for finals. But Sam managed to survive his very first college finals with better grades than he was expecting ( _better than a kid who hadn’t been at the same school for a whole year of high school, who’d needed an extra year to graduate because he’d missed so much for the sake of Dad’s hunts, should have been able to do_ ). Brady, of course, had done just fine. To celebrate, he talked Sam into going to a Christmas party he’d been invited to by a sophomore girl who’d been flirting shamelessly with him since Thanksgiving. Sam hadn’t wanted to go - he still felt like an outsider in this world of rich smart beautiful people - but Brady claimed he wanted Sam there for moral support, and Sam finally caved.

The party was at the girl’s parents’ Los Altos mansion, with students from freshmen all the way up through grad school. There was an open bar with beer and various hard liquors a million times better than the crap hunters drank, and Sam felt himself start to relax for the first time since he’d left Dad and Dean. A few drinks in, he even let a pretty blond girl he vaguely remembered from his history class pull him onto the patio, where multicolored Christmas lights illuminated a packed dance floor.

It was more fun than he’d thought it would be, and Sam figured that Brady’s claim about needing moral support had just been an excuse to get Sam to go. Brady certainly didn’t need help surviving being hit on by a gorgeous brunette - or at least, Sam thought he didn’t, right up until Brady finished his third ( _illegal, because Brady was nineteen, just like Sam, but unlike Sam who’d been drinking since he was a kid, this was Brady’s first time and he had no idea what his limits were_ ) cocktail and started making out with the brunette’s older brother.

Which explained a lot - not just Brady’s hesitation about flirting with a girl, but also what the deal had been with the frat boys, and why Brady had been so reluctant to talk about why they’d been after him. Sam managed to get Brady out of the party and back to his own dorm room before Brady did anything he’d regret once he sobered up. Sam’s roommate had already gone home for the holidays, while Brady’s was still around and kind of an asshole to boot, so Sam’s dorm seemed the better choice. He sat Brady down on his bed and went to get a glass of water from the bathroom.

When he returned, he found Brady staring out the narrow dorm window, chewing on his lower lip. It was an oddly vulnerable contrast to the strong lines of his jaw, and Sam found himself moving more carefully than usual when he handed the glass to Brady and sat on the bed beside him.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

Brady took a sip from the glass, then looked at it suspiciously, as if surprised it was non-alcoholic. Finally he said, “I’m fine. I just…” He looked up at Sam, blue eyes wide and suddenly afraid. “I don’t—I mean, I shouldn’t have—that guy, he—” He buried his face in his hands, and Sam had to rescue the glass of water before it sloshed all over the bed. “I can’t believe I did that. You probably think I’m—”

“No, I don’t,” Sam interrupted, because he knew what it meant to be a freak and Brady was in no way, shape, or form a freak. “It’s none of my business who you flirt with.”

“I can’t believe I did that,” Brady repeated helplessly. “It’s not—I’m not—”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Sam pointed out as gently as he could, but even as he said it he remembered the frat boys, remembered Brady talking about his ultra-Catholic parents. It was no wonder he’d never rebelled against his parents’ dreams of medical school - he’d been living a much more terrifying rebellion since puberty.

Brady peered at him incredulously between his fingers. “Sam, I—” He paused, and Sam actually watched him turn green. “I’m gonna be sick…!”

By some miracle, Sam managed to get him into the bathroom and over the toilet before he puked. They stayed there for a while until Brady had brought back up all the alcohol he’d drunk and sagged, sick and miserable, against the toilet. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said. “You’re not the first person I’ve seen drink too much.”

Brady snorted. “You drank as much as I did but you’re not even buzzed. How is that fair?”

“I’m buzzed,” Sam told him. “But this wasn’t my first time drinking.”

“I thought you were the same age as me.”

Sam shrugged. “My dad and his friends didn’t care much about the legal drinking age.”

“Oh.” Brady fell silent, shivering.

Sam gave him a minute to collect himself, then chivvied him upright. “Take a shower,” he said, and nudged him toward the bathroom’s little shower stall. “You’ll feel better.”

For a second Brady looked like he was going to protest, but then he sighed and nodded. Sam left him to it, retreating back out to the bedroom and flopping down on his bed. He took the chance to shuck his shoes and hoodie - even in winter California was warm enough that he was comfortable in a t-shirt - and finish off a half-empty bottle of water he’d left on the dresser yesterday.

The whole situation was weirdly, almost comfortingly familiar. Especially over the last few years, when Dad was hunting more often than he was around and it had been up to Dean to hustle pool for food money, Sam had spent hours sitting with his brother while Dean puked his guts out. Though Dean had finally seemed to be either getting better at respecting his own limits, or developing a frightening tolerance for alcohol, in the six months or so before Sam had left. Guilt flashed through him, sudden and sharp, at the thought of Dean having to be sick and hung over alone. ( _But now that Sam wasn’t there, Dean only needed food money for one, and probably didn’t have to hustle nearly as much, so he was better off. Really, he was better off, Dean was_ fine _without Sam, probably happy Sam was gone and he didn’t have to worry about him any more—_ )

“Sam?” Brady’s voice startled Sam out of his thoughts, and Sam turned to see Brady’s head poking around the bathroom door, his brown hair dripping. “Um… do you have a towel?”

“Oops.” Sam scrambled to his feet and yanked open the dresser drawers until he found his spare towel. He tossed it to Brady, who caught it clumsily - dripping water all over the floor in the process - and disappeared back into the bathroom.

He reemerged a minute later with the towel wrapped around his waist, his hair tousled but no longer dripping. His skin still shone from the water, and while he wasn’t a weightlifter, he clearly put effort into maintaining the muscles of his arms and stomach. Sam didn’t realize he was staring until Brady shifted self-consciously and ran a hand through his hair. “My clothes smell gross,” he said apologetically. “And I, uh, used some of your toothpaste.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said. “You’re staying here for the night anyway.”

“I am?”

“Do you _want_ to spend the rest of tonight with your asshole roommate making fun of you for drinking too much?”

“Good point.” Brady flopped down on the bed beside Sam, kicking his heels out dejectedly. His legs were long, with a runner’s sleek muscle, and he didn’t seem to realize that the towel wasn’t doing much to protect his modesty. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “This probably isn’t your idea of a good time.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said. He forced his eyes away from Brady’s ...legs and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “College parties are all about drinking too much and doing stupid shit, right?”

Brady laughed, but it sounded forced, and after a second his shoulders slumped. “I’m pathetic,” he said. “My first wild college party and I screw it up.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you’ll have other chances.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Brady admitted. “I mean, if I get drunk again, if I… do _that_ again…”

“What?” Sam said. “Kiss a guy? So?”

Brady glared. “So my parents will kill me!”

“Your parents don’t get to tell you what to do with your life,” Sam said. It came out more heated than he’d meant, and Brady blinked at him in surprise. Sam got his voice under control and continued, “My dad doesn’t even want me to go to college. He thinks it’s pointless. But he doesn’t get to control my life. No one does. It’s _my_ life, and I’m going to do what I want with it.” He gripped Brady’s shoulder. “Do what _you_ want to do. Not what your parents think you should do.”

Brady swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He shivered, though his skin was warm under Sam’s hand. “I don’t know what I want,” he whispered.

Sam leaned in closer, ducking his head the way he normally did when talking to Dean. Except the gesture felt different with Brady somehow, more intimate, and he wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop, either. Brady was a little too close, his breathing a little too fast, his blue eyes wide. Sam wasn’t sure whether he should pull away and end it before anything happened, or stay there and see what _might_ happen, and then before he could decide Brady leaned in the last few inches and kissed him.

For a second or two Sam didn’t quite know how to react, still unsure whether this was a good idea or a really, really terrible one. He felt Brady hesitate and start to pull away, which was enough to make the decision for Sam because he suddenly _didn’t_ want Brady to go anywhere. Before Sam could think too much about it, he tugged him closer, and when they came up for air Sam gave in to the urge to wrap his hands around Brady’s waist and lift him bodily onto his lap. Brady made a startled noise but let him do it, shifting closer so his knees were on either side of Sam’s hips, and then it really was a good thing that Sam’s roommate was gone for the week.

*             *             *

Afterwards, they lay sprawled in an ungainly tangle of limbs and blankets, Brady half-lying on Sam so they would both fit on the narrow bed. Sam knew Brady wasn’t asleep, could feel tension building in his muscles until Brady burst out suddenly, “I can’t believe we just did that. I can’t believe _I_ just did that.”

Sam tilted his head to see Brady’s face, shaking the hair out of his eyes. “Do you regret it?”

“I…” Brady said, and in the pause Sam’s heart lurched nervously. Then Brady said, “No, I don’t… I don’t think I regret it.” He covered his face with a hand. “But I still can’t believe I just did that.”

Sam smiled. “Well, _I_ enjoyed it.”

“You did?” Brady blinked up at him. “I thought—I mean, I’ve never done this before, I didn’t think—”

“I’ve only done it with girls,” Sam admitted. “I’m not an expert or anything.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Brady said. “So, um, the girls, were they because…”

“I like _people_ ,” Sam said, and shrugged. “Never really cared much about shape.”

“Lucky,” Brady said. “I wish I could just… not care like that. It’d make things easier with Mom and Dad.”

Sam kissed him lightly. “We don’t have to tell anyone about this, if you want,” he offered. “It’s none of your parents’ business what you do.”

“I, uh.” Brady thought about that for a minute, his thumb tracing slow circles on Sam’s hip. “That won’t bother you?”

Sam didn’t want to say he’d been keeping much, much more dangerous secrets since he was a child. Brady didn’t need to know that, and anyway Sam wasn’t a hunter any more. He was safe at college, away from the ugly, monstrous world of hunting. So all he said was, “Nope. Not at all,” and kissed Brady again.

“Oh,” Brady said. “Okay then.”

*             *             *

It wasn’t as if keeping their relationship secret was hard, anyway. They had fewer classes together in the spring semester, and between various extracurriculars - Brady found a judo class, and Sam picked up a part-time job in the university’s bookstore - they didn’t have a lot of time for dates or any of the frilly stuff the movies said went with a relationship. Sam was fairly sure his own roommate suspected, at least, but he was an easygoing guy and never said anything.

Sam did even better on his second set of finals than he’d done on the first, and he and Brady celebrated with a few other friends by going to San Francisco and getting wasted. Brady took Sam to see the Golden Gate Bridge lit up against the fiery orange sunset sky, and it didn’t bother them when their friends decided that was boring and headed back to the bars. After they’d had their fill of being tourists - paying too much for a cheesy photo in a cardboard frame, browsing the bridge-themed trinkets in the gift shop, taking turns peering through the pay telescopes - they headed down to the long open sandbar along the waters of the bay. It was chilly enough and late enough by then that the beach was more or less deserted, and they made the discovery that sand was a terrible surface on which to have sex.

“I’m _still_ finding sand on me,” Brady muttered three days later. They sat together in Brady’s dorm room, sprawled against each other on his bed. His roommate had left for the summer, and Sam was supposed to be helping Brady pack for his own return home. _Supposed to_ being the operative phrase, as Brady didn’t seem to want to pack any more than Sam wanted him to. “In the weirdest places.”

Sam laughed and bumped his shoulder against Brady’s. “I can throw you into the bay next time,” he offered. “Rinse you off before we come back.”

“Ugh, bay water.” Brady made a face. “I heard boats dump their waste in there.”

“Ew!” Sam said. “Okay, maybe not.” They shared a grin, then fell into an easy silence.

But Sam could feel the tension in Brady, in the way his slender fingers traced restless patterns on Sam’s thigh, in the way he shifted so his head was tucked against Sam’s shoulder. Finally Brady said quietly, “I don’t want to go home.”

“So don’t,” Sam answered, just as quiet.

“It’s not that easy for me,” Brady said. “Mom and Dad already paid for the plane ticket. They’ll be waiting for me at the airport tomorrow. I can’t just… not show up.”

Sam sighed. They’d talked about this before, when Brady had realized Sam was planning to stay in Palo Alto and spend the summer working, maybe pick up some extra classes if he could. Sam hadn’t told Brady about the fight he’d had with Dad almost a year ago. Didn’t tell him that even if Sam had wanted to leave for the summer, he didn’t have anywhere to go. Didn’t tell him that Sam was green with envy that Brady had a home to go back to, had parents who cared enough about their son to send him to college.

He wrapped an arm around Brady and pulled him closer, resting his chin on top of Brady’s head. “I know. Just… remember they’re your parents, okay? Not your drill sergeant, not your dictator. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, and you don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want them to know.”

“Yeah,” Brady said. His voice wobbled. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“It’s only a few months,” Sam said, making his voice light. “I’m not going anywhere.” He bent his head and kissed Brady, slow and gentle and insistent.

“Good,” Brady breathed back against his lips.

They didn’t get any packing done that day.


	2. Sophomore

They kept in touch throughout the summer, trading emails and, when the time zones worked out with Sam’s three jobs and the school’s library hours, instant messages. Brady emailed Sam photos of himself at his family’s summer cabin: dozing in a hammock, jumping off a dock into a glittering lake, riding dirt bikes along forest trails. Sam responded with a tongue-in-cheek photo of himself in the ridiculous uniform and paper hat he had to wear at one of his jobs, with slumped shoulders and his mouth pulled down into the saddest pout he could muster (and which had made the coworker who’d taken the picture crack up laughing).

Brady had emailed back, _and all the free fast food you can eat, i’m stuck with mom’s vegetarian crap even though we have a barbecue pit!_ So of course Sam had had to enlist his coworkers’ help to stack up as many burgers as they possibly could, which turned out to be quite an impressive amount. They managed to get the photo and dismantle the stack before the manager noticed, and when Sam checked his email the next morning, he found _:D_ .

Brady came back to Stanford two days before fall classes started, his skin bronzed and his hair bleached from weeks in the sun. He greeted Sam with a hug hard enough to crack ribs, and Sam buried his face in Brady’s hair. When they pulled apart, Brady squinted up at him. “I think you got taller.”

“Another inch,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He was _so_ done with growing pains in his legs.

“Well, stop it,” Brady said with a grin. “Get too much taller and I won’t be able to reach you.”

“Poor Shorty,” Sam said, and stood on his toes to rest an elbow on top of Brady’s head.

“I’m six-two,” Brady said, mock-offended, ducking away from Sam’s arm. “You’re just part Sasquatch.”

“Not enough hair for that,” Sam shot back.

“Good,” Brady said, and smiled. There wasn’t anyone around to see them, and when Sam bent his head to kiss him, it was like they hadn’t been apart at all.

*             *             *

Brady went back home for Thanksgiving, just like he had the year before. Sam hadn’t minded; he’d volunteered to work Black Friday hours for the overtime pay, and anyway he still wasn’t going to let Brady know how jealous Sam was of his normal apple-pie family. Brady’d never known anything but comfortable wealth and loving, if strict, parents, and Sam didn’t want to ruin that innocence.

He hadn’t expected something else to take it away.

Sam worked late Sunday night and had classes all day Monday, so it was a disappointment but not a surprise that he didn’t see Brady his first day back. But Brady wasn’t at any of his classes on Tuesday, and when he still hadn’t turned up Wednesday night Sam went looking for him. He wasn’t in his dorm room and his new roommate said he hadn’t seen Brady at all since he’d come back.

Worried now, Sam spent the next two hours scouring the campus. He was almost ready to give up and call the police when a buxom cheerleader, leaning against the wall of her sorority house, told him she was pretty sure she’d seen Brady “inside”. Which made no sense, why would Brady be in a sorority house, and Sam hurried inside, stomach twisting—

Brady sprawled on a couch in the middle of the room, his tongue halfway down a blond girl’s throat and one hand way too high on her thigh, while a second girl sucked seductively on the fingers of his other hand. There was clearly a low-key party going on; the room stank of alcohol and pot and sex and in his periphery Sam noticed at least three or four other couples in varying stages of undress around the room. But mostly he saw Brady, and without thinking he crossed the room and pushed the blond away. “Brady!” he demanded. “What the _hell_?!”

The blond yelped, but Sam ignored her, his attention on Brady. It took Brady a few seconds to focus on him; even from three feet away Sam could smell the beer on his breath. Something flickered over Brady’s face too fast to identify, then he grinned wide. “Sam!” he said, his voice jocular. “Hey, hi, hello!”

Sam gritted his teeth. “What the _hell_ , man?” he hissed.

Brady blinked a few times, then looked around the room as if only just noticing the debauchery. “What, this?” he said, and smiled, but there was something wrong with the expression. It was cold and harsh and didn’t reach his eyes at all. “This is my life now, Sam!” he said. “Girls, girls, girls!”

“Brady—”

The blonde and her friend apparently decided that whatever was going on, they didn’t want to be involved. They climbed off the couch and wandered away to a different corner of the room. “Aw, Sam,” Brady pouted. “You scared them.”

“ _You’re_ scaring _me_ ,” Sam said. He grabbed Brady by the arm and dragged him bodily off the couch and out of the sorority house. Brady pouted but let him do it, pausing only to grab another cup of beer from a table on the way out. When they were several hundred feet away from the house, safe in the darkness of a little park, Sam pressed Brady against a tree. “Brady, man, what the hell is going on?”

Brady laughed, the sound low and ugly. “They found out, Sam,” he said. Blue eyes focused on Sam’s and Brady flashed that awful smile again. “My parents. I don’t know how, but they know. So I’ve been _reformed._ ” He spat the word out like it was poison, though the grin never faltered. “It’s the ladies for me, now, Sam. Sorry.”

Sam stared at him, not quite able to process that. “Brady—”

“Don’t,” Brady said, harsh and cold. He waved the cup vaguely; beer sloshed over the rim. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, right?” Sam was still staring at him, and Brady sighed. In a softer voice, he said, “Look, I was gonna tell you, okay? I just…” He shook his head. “I was working up the nerve.”

Sam gritted his teeth, hard, fingers curling into the bark over Brady’s shoulder. They were standing too close, Sam leaning over Brady like he had a dozen times before except this was nothing like any of those times, tension and wrongness so thick in the air between them that Sam couldn’t have closed the distance if he’d tried. Brady reached up with his free hand and pressed his splayed fingertips to Sam’s chest. “Let me go, Sam,” he said, almost gentle. “It’s over.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat hurt. Talking hurt more, but Sam managed, “Okay.” He let Brady push him away with sharp fingers, and didn’t follow when Brady sauntered back toward the sorority house.

*             *             *

Brady started coming to class again a week later, though he reeked of alcohol and pot even during the morning classes. He acted as though nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t broken up with Sam - as if they’d never started dating at all, as if they’d just been friends this whole time. Sam went along with it because he didn’t know what else to do; it wasn’t like anyone else had known about their relationship, so it wouldn’t make sense for him to be upset about anything. And a part of him hoped that if he waited long enough, if he was normal enough, Brady would come down from the shame and anger that was driving him so crazy.

But the days kept passing, and Brady kept drinking and smoking and getting it on with every girl who’d have him. Sam made it through finals mostly by using them to distract himself from Brady; he had no idea how Brady passed any of his classes. He found out from a friend that Brady had skipped his plane home, and managed to score a ticket to Hawaii with a gorgeous redhead. Sam told himself firmly that he didn’t care, that it was over ( _that it wasn’t any different than losing any other friend, any other romantic partner, except it was, because always before he hadn’t had to be around them afterward_ ), and he threw himself into working as many extra holiday hours as he could get.

If he worked hard enough, long enough, then when he got back to his room at night he was exhausted enough to sleep instead of lie in bed and miss Brady with every piece of his heart.

*             *             *

“Sam!”

Brady’s voice came from nowhere and Sam jumped a mile. Spinning around, he found Brady standing an arm’s length away, a bottle of ale in one hand and a shit-eating grin on his face. Sam had no idea how he’d gotten there; it was almost eleven PM and he’d thought no one else was in the library this late. “Sam, Sam, Sam,” Brady said, and _tsk_ ’d. “You going soft on me, man? You’re white as a sheet!”

Sam scowled. “You scared the shit out of me,” he snapped.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” Brady said, though there was nothing apologetic at all in his tone. He draped an arm around Sam’s shoulders, his breath reeking of alcohol. “What happened to my big tough protector?” he said. “Last year you’d have decked me for sneaking up on you like that.”

“You should be glad I didn’t, then,” Sam said, still irritated. He shrugged Brady’s arm away and turned back to the computer.

“You’re no fun at all,” Brady whined. He hitched a hip onto the table at Sam’s elbow. “I mean, hell, it’s the first week of class and you’re already staying late studying? Dude, Sam, live a little!”

Sam ground his teeth, took a deep breath before answering. He was too tired, too frustrated, to deal with drunk Brady right now. Still, he managed to keep his voice more or less calm when he said, “I’m not studying. I was supposed to take ASL 250 this semester, but the teacher quit three hours before our first class. I have until eight AM tomorrow to pick another elective, but everything’s full.”

“Oh c’mon,” Brady said cheerfully. “It’s a big school, there’s gotta be _something_.”

“There’s not a Spanish class this term,” Sam answered irritably, “and only level 3 Chinese and Japanese. The history class is full, and so is American Culture Studies.”

“So take something else,” Brady said. “Something _interesting_.”

Sam fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Like what?”

“Like art history,” Brady suggested. “I’m taking it, I know it’s not full.”

“Art history?” Sam repeated. “Is that even on the list for pre-med?”

Brady waved the beer bottle dismissively. “I switched to business,” he said, like it didn’t matter. “Pissed off my parents, but what-the-fuck ever.”

Sam stared at him for a few seconds. Brady grinned, teeth flashing too white in the library’s dim light. “Look,” he said, like he was explaining something obvious. “You said yourself, my parents don’t get to rule my life.” He laughed, a cold bitter sound. “I can have this much control, at least.”

Sam ground his teeth, but looked away. This wasn’t what he’d meant, and they both knew it, but Sam didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t know what to do or say to make things right with Brady. But maybe… Brady’d been avoiding Sam since Thanksgiving, so maybe the offer to share a class was a sign of… something. Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth and reached for the mouse. His fingers bumped Brady’s hip and he flinched, but Brady didn’t even seem to notice, and after a moment Sam made himself keep going like nothing had happened.

Art History 101 had four available slots. Sam clicked _enroll_.

*             *             *

“Is this or is this not the _best_ class?” Brady crowed, though he kept his voice to a whisper pitched for Sam’s ears only.

The art history classroom was small, intimate, with desks crowded together and walls hung with prints of famous paintings. The teacher was a droll middle-aged man who wore an ill-fitting polo shirt and didn’t seem overly concerned about whether the students were paying attention. Which explained why Brady was so excited: aside from Sam and Brady, the students were all girls, and Brady seemed determined to spend the entire class flirting with all of them.

“That’s Emily,” Brady whispered, pointing at a dark-haired girl with grey eyes and an intent expression. “That one’s Ashley” —a buxom redhead who saw them looking at her and smiled— “that’s Becky, that’s Jessica, and that’s Kelly.”

“Shh,” Sam muttered back. “I’m trying to listen.” He would rather have been taking ASL again, but an elective was an elective, and he needed to pass the class.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Brady said. “Lighten _up_ , Sam!”

Sam glared at him. “Shh!”

Brady rolled his eyes, but - thank God and all the angels - finally shut up.

From the other side of the room, the girl Brady had called Jessica gave Sam a grateful smile.

*             *             *

“I think she likes you,” Brady said.

They were sitting in the library, ostensibly studying, though in reality Sam was the only one doing any work. Brady held a water bottle filled with something Sam was pretty sure wasn’t water, and had shoved enough of Sam’s papers out of the way that he could sit on the table and kick Sam’s chair.

Sam sighed and put his pencil down; after a month sharing the art history class with Brady he’d learned that Brady wouldn’t leave him alone until he answered. So he said, with mock patience, “Who?”

“You know who,” Brady cooed, his mouth curling into a smirk. Sam scowled and the smirk widened into a grin. “Sam and Jessica, sittin’ in a tree—”

“Finish that and I swear to God I’ll break your jaw,” Sam snapped.

Brady pouted. “Oh, c’mon, Sam! I’m just trying to help you out here.” He reached out and squeezed Sam’s bicep mockingly. “Besides, you couldn’t break my jaw any more if you tried.”

“Wanna find out?” Sam growled.

“You won’t,” Brady teased. “You don’t wanna get kicked out of the library.”

Sam gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached. Brady was right, as much as it frustrated Sam right now - he couldn’t afford a laptop, and he didn’t have enough space in his dorm room to check out all the books he needed. Not that he _wanted_ to hurt Brady ( _really, he didn’t, but God the guy had turned into an annoying asshole_ ), but it wasn’t like he had any other way to get him to shut up. He picked up his pencil again - maybe if he just ignored Brady hard enough, Brady would get bored and go somewhere else ( _and that hurt, the thought that he was actively trying to get Brady to go away when it was Sam’s fault he was like this in the first place, when it was Sam who should be trying to help him get himself back together, but nothing Sam tried had worked and he was running out of ideas_ ).

Brady didn’t take the hint, though, kicking Sam’s chair hard enough to make the table shake. “Seriously, man,” he said. “You should ask her out. She’s been making eyes at you all semester.”

Sam glanced up at Brady, then back down at his economics paper. His chest hurt and suddenly he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Brady—”

“Sam,” Brady interrupted, and his voice was suddenly gentle, almost like the Brady Sam had fallen in love with a year ago. “Look, I know I… I didn’t handle things real well when we… when I…” He broke off and shook his head. “But you gotta get over it, Sam. Over me. I can’t—” He broke off again and sighed, looking away across the room. “Jessica’s a good person. She’s sweet and funny and—” His hands started to come up to his chest in a gesture Sam recognized from Dean’s teenaged boob obsession, but he stopped himself at the last second and just said, “Gorgeous.”

Sam ran a hand over his mouth, shoved his hair out of his eyes. “It’s not your fault, Brady,” he said tiredly. “I mean, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shouldn’t have what?” Brady asked. “I’m the one who started it, remember?”

“Yeah, but…” Sam gestured helplessly. “I didn’t want—I didn’t mean—” He sucked in a breath and met Brady’s eyes, bright blue in the library’s fluorescent light, trying to talk around the sudden lump in his throat. “I want to make this right,” he whispered.

Brady smiled gently, though his blue eyes were ice cold. “There’s nothing to make right, Sam,” he said. “I’m a freak, a monster, and you can’t change that—”

“You aren’t,” Sam said. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Maybe there wasn’t,” Brady said. He lifted the water bottle pointedly, let it thump onto the table between them. “But then I met you.” He gave Sam a crooked smile, then, before Sam could think of anything to say, he hopped off the table and tossed him a flippant wave. “I mean it, man. Ask Jessica out. She’s perfect for you.”

Then Brady was gone, vanished between the bookshelves, and Sam was alone.

It was a long time before he could see anything past the tears in his eyes.

*             *             *

Two weeks later, Jessica Moore caught up to Sam after class and asked him to dinner. Across the hall, Brady flashed Sam a devilish grin and a thumbs-up.

Sam said yes.


	3. Junior

“Do you miss him?” Jess asked.

They had only just moved into the little off-campus ( _half a block away was still off-campus_ ) apartment, and despite Sam having not many more belongings now than he’d started freshman year with, they still had a dozen boxes they hadn’t unpacked. Sam was sitting on a cinder block that he planned to turn into a shelf, and hadn’t realized how long he’d been silent and unmoving until Jess spoke.

“I—What?” he said.

“Do you miss him?” Jess repeated, and nodded toward the desk wedged into the corner. Among several frames that belonged to Jess was a single photo in a cardboard holder, decorated with cheesy Golden Gate Bridge cartoons. In the photo, Sam and Brady stood with their arms over each other’s shoulders, huge smiles on their faces, the bridge towering behind them.

Sam swallowed. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.”

He’d never lost a friend like this before, this slow gradual drifting apart. Always before, he’d been uprooted by Dad and the hunt, often almost before he’d started making friends at all. Losing the few he managed to make always hurt, sure, but it was a fast thing. He knew he’d never see them again, knew they’d forget about him within weeks. But this…

Jess leaned against him, her warm fingers squeezing his shoulders. “It sucks,” she said. “Growing apart from someone.”

Sam nodded. His throat was tight and he wasn’t sure he could speak.

“He, um,” Jess continued carefully. “He told me you two were, um. Together, for a while.”

“He did?” Sam said. He twisted to look up at her, not sure what he was expecting to see in her expression. But she just smiled, a little sadly.

“It was back when I was thinking about asking you out. He said it was only fair that I know. He was worried that the way he’d broken up with you would have…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It was kind of cute, really.”

Sam couldn’t help a snort. “He does that.”

She bent down, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her body warm and soft against his back. “He’ll be all right. Maybe even settle down after college, once he’s really free of his parents.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. It had been his fault Brady had gotten so fucked up in the first place, but there wasn’t anything he could do to make it right. “I hope so.”


	4. Senior

Jess died six and a half months before she would have graduated with honors. The university posthumously awarded her a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree.

Brady wasn’t at the funeral.

Sam barely noticed.


	5. Apocalypse

The knife slid into Brady’s ( _not Brady’s_ ) the demon’s abdomen like it belonged there. Sam held it in place while the demon died, surprise on its ( _Brady’s_ ) face. He knew Brady - the real Brady, his best friend, his lover - was long gone. Even if Brady’s mind had somehow managed to survive seven years of demonic possession, Sam had seen the bloody cavity at the back of the demon’s head where Crowley had bashed it in.

He wanted to say something to the demon. Something to avenge Jess and Brady, to let the demon know his fury didn’t come from fearing what he saw in the mirror, but rather from what he’d never see again: laughing blue eyes, a bright smile, Brady and Jess at his side, alive and whole and happy. The words that came out weren’t enough, but they were all he could manage, and when the demon’s ( _Brady’s_ ) body slumped to the filthy ground of the alley, it took everything Sam had left to turn around and walk to the car.

For a while nothing at all existed, his head full of static and his eyes seeing only a blur of light and dark. Eventually he became aware of movement, the Impala’s trunk slamming closed, Dean sliding into the driver’s seat beside him. Sam had no idea how much Crowley had told Dean, but whatever it had been, it was enough that Dean didn’t try to say anything. No lame jokes, no attempts to break the silence that sat heavy in the car with them, and Sam was glad for it.

He didn’t pay attention to where they were going until Dean pulled the Impala off the highway onto a narrow rutted road that wound through the trees. When they were far enough from the highway that they wouldn’t be seen, Dean stopped the car at a small clearing, climbed out, and began gathering sticks and branches. It took a while for the meaning of his actions to work through the static in Sam’s mind, but finally he recognized the slowly-forming shape of a funeral pyre.

He knew he should get out and help. It wasn’t fair to leave it all for Dean. But he couldn’t make himself move, not until the pyre was finished and Dean went to open the trunk. Sam didn’t remember getting out of the car, but suddenly he was in front of the trunk, lifting Brady’s limp body in his arms. He settled him on the pyre with a gentleness that wouldn’t matter to the empty shell, memories breaking through the static of all the other times he’d held Brady close. They didn’t have a shroud - hadn’t been planning a funeral - so Sam kept his eyes on Brady’s face as Dean poured fuel around the base of the pyre.

The fire burned hot and fast, dry wood popping beneath the roar of the flames, the heat painful against Sam’s skin. He couldn’t bring himself to care, couldn’t make himself look away. Dean came up to stand beside him, shoulders hunched against the heat, close enough that when Sam shifted his weight he bumped against him. Dean didn’t move, but he didn’t say anything, either, and Sam leaned against him until the fire had burned to ashes.

*             *             *

Days later, when sunlight glinted off the Impala and Sam fought the devil for control, he remembered his mother’s gentle smile, Dad’s gruff laugh, Jess’s warm hands. And when he won, when he wrestled control of himself back for just one impossible minute, when he stood at the precipice and let himself fall, he remembered Brady’s blue eyes, and he knew he’d finally made it right.

 


End file.
